


fieldwork from a lab

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Study, POV Second Person, every soldier has a sob story, it's sort of interpretive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4580553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>angels of sin work better together</p>
<p>[Tiny character exploration pieces. Kind of.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	fieldwork from a lab

**Author's Note:**

> a) each number is a different character from the 'verse (inc. TWS)  
> b) some are easier to work out than others  
> c) is this prose? a word sneeze?? an exercise in lobotomy? who knows.
> 
> influenced by postcardmystery's [world ablaze](http://archiveofourown.org/series/51896) series, because it influences everything I do

[1]

One day you wake up with someone else's memories crowding your brain and it's hard to think straight, or in English, or in your vernacular. He shouts like the forest is on fire but you can see it in your head, clear as day, mist coming in but you’ve got a while left to enjoy the sight; perhaps only a tiny part of you is scared, but that don’t mean you aren’t sane, you're still horribly horrifically aware of your 78% levelheadedness and you think, “hey, maybe he likes beer too” so you take some but he spits it out again; Bruce would be impressed, or more likely, appalled; perhaps your head has always been like this; perhaps you are the one invading someone else, maybe the war is your fault, maybe maybe maybe, James Dean in a roofless car, glasses and white shirt. Did you know him? You think not. But then, if you’re not you, you could think anything and it wouldn’t mean jot. Perhaps…

[2]

You are Captain America, the savior of all your people, there’s a little edge to that, some bitterness you can't feel but can see and it's like you're falling asleep too quick, the oncoming train doesn’t stop, and if anyone needs saving it isn’t you, that’s the problem. If you always write the words backwards no one can read into your actions. If you ain't alive now when you ever gonna be, son?

[3]

The bruises fade but ultimately they're still hurting, still caressing their touches, ready to bite. She's alone when you kill her, and it stirs something in that chink in your armor, but you do it anyway, mostly because it's cold and you want out. It’s a Tuesday when the world ends, but then it was also technically a Wednesday, and a Saturday. My world and your world are very different, and mine ends every day // But you're stuck a killer: a her and a him and a them and you won't stop because you want out, and you talk very clearly and slowly, imitating your forefathers, and you're the only one left who has no meaning in his blood, because you’ve lost too much

[4]

The day it rains you think of a studio but it isn’t yours, isn’t anyone's, the people who go there belong to the Lord, and all this religious symbolism makes you angry, makes you want to hurl. Cause you’ve never had a god, never had a mother or a teacher or a friend, there's just people and people and you and you could say you're alone but it isn’t that, that implies you'd rather you had someone, but when they ask you to count to four and do it again you smile widely and outshine the rest of the universe, just because you can.

[5]

Did I mention I'm a maniac? Because I am, I'm the worst thing possible, I'm your imagination gone wild I'm all the fears you can't swallow and this is getting old, don’t you think? Search and destroy, follow your heart, go to bed at 10pm, vegetables and natural light and an aching horizon. So what if I'm perpetually a slut, a coward, an orphan. I can be whoever and whatever and whenever but I cannot change, just put on masks and extra layers of jackets and ties but I can never change, but I've never wanted to. You think I must hate myself. Comedians are always the saddest, right, but sometimes they just want to have some fucking fun, give me that okay---

[6]

If the colosseum falls it will be your fault, and you will not tell them that, you will blame the world instead, stars you can't reach and can't talk to, can't gage a reply from. Blame your brother, if anything. Perhaps he's too far from the sun to notice you but no matter, this is about you. Shift your focus. Make ‘em bleed. You're the good guy but sometimes you just want to sleep or fuck something up, but you're a god, you're intrinsically good, you have more power than your father and less than your weapon. You’re a slave, really. Just a shadow of a man.

[7]

If I liked you'd I'd have stayed, I left for a reason, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I died that day and no one saw because I kept on walking. But I am gone, and here you are, you monstrous terror, don’t say I didn’t let you in // Are you afraid? You shouldn’t be, not now (but forever anyway). Beyond and between and along, all the times we held hands and stuff like that, you might not think it memorable but I have aliens to welcome in and people to kill for peace, and don’t think I don’t hate it, otherwise you can't know me so well.

[8]

A birdsong under all your skies, the same little robin or spider or ay’’re’e or something like that, or maybe not like that at all, but something always sings, not for anyone in particular but that’s the best part really. I love when the night comes and nothing changes, just softens, just becomes more like its maker. Do you know that, have you heard the singing? Doesn’t matter, doesn’t need you to carry on. But thank you, for whatever it is you did tomorrow and yesterday and just now, means a lot to me, because I never used to have a home.

[9]

You wake up with voices you couldn’t speak before, for all you know, for all your years you never would’ve come up with such sob stories. It's boring. But it's real, which makes Gaunilo’s island look terrible in photographs and it's cold here, where no one breathes and elbows scrape but only for a purpose. You say, “have you had a good night?” and he’ll say “good enough” and you’ll think about it, and decide that he's right.


End file.
